Tuesday, October 16, 2012

"Honey-Footed Cat."

She’s on my bed. “Whenever I hear an 18-wheeler go by I get so sad. Because it just makes me feel like I want to be on one.”
Her Mom’s favorite movie is ‘Babette’s Feast.’

He paid a boy to drag a woman’s body out of the Tiber river just so he could paint it. And then call it the Virgin.

“Mercury invented the arts with an act of theft.”

A papal crown obstructing our view of her tits. Held over the tits by her gross, red hands. Ruddy. Maybe only her hands would go into delirium tremens if she stopped drinking. Drunkard palms. 

She’s small. Holding her cat, it rests head on two of her fingers touching the chin, scraping back against the chin. Her eyes are closed. Like, all relaxed. Smile that looks soft, thin, light. Her… and it, they look conjoined. Stupidly happy together. We can only see the two of them, sitting on slightly cooled down cement, this stroking lasts so long, they keep melding more and more. Losing the ability to see between the it and the girl. It and she. Fur and skin, skin tangling fur, they just undulate together, stroking that’s like a wave. Her eyes stay closed. I see two slits opening. It’s eyes, cat’s eyes. Blue. Open wide. Fuck. So dilated the blue’s gone now. That blue was good. It’s tensed. Hairs all raised. Her palms are pressing into it. Holds it down by shoulder-blades and pushes tight into her knee caps. Her face stays calm. Her eyes stays closed. Seems like she anticipates it’s struggles before they’ve even started. It digs claws into her knee caps. Fuck. It’s like. Really scratching her. She’s bleeding. Just white scratches. Red trickles appear. Going down the shins. She’s pressing harder. She smiles like God’s spitting all over her face. Clamping fingers around the cat’s throat. We can see. I can see. Now I see. Source of agitation. A dog being held back by some hands. On its leash. Lunging forward. Not barking. But labored panting and biting at invisible air. As gently as she possibly can. Like this writhing cat is delicate china. What the fuck. She extends hands holding it, out to the dog. Fuck.

Dog takes first bite. Huge rip into it’s head. Goes for throat. She’s gotten up and walked away. Eats in alive. Cement wet with it. Wetting the cement with it. Opening it up. All over cement.

I don't want to relate.

“When he was shown the statues of Phidias and Glykon in order that he might use them as models, his only answer was to point toward a crowd of people, saying that nature had given him an abundance of masters…
He claimed that he imitated his models so closely that he never made a single brushstroke that he called his own, but said rather that it was nature’s. Repudiating all other rules, he considered the highest achievement not to be bound to art. For this innovation he was greatly acclaimed, and many talented and educated artists seemed compelled to follow him… Nevertheless he lacked invenzione, decorum, or disegno, or any knowledge of the science of painting. The moment the model was taken from him, his hand and his mind became empty… Thus, as he suppressed the dignity of art, everybody did as he pleased, and what followed was contempt for beautiful things, the authority of antiquity and Raphael destroyed… Now began the imitation of common and vulgar things, seeking out filth and deformity.”

I don't want to relay.

“Shut up.
Come on.
Forming. Take 1.”

Saint Teresa of Avila knew that interior mortifications constructed this path, as a means to make any other common kind of mortification that much more “meritorious and perfect.” Really, she just wanted to wear a cilice around the upper thigh, choke on dust, ask her sisters to cradle her in skin-cutting ropes, seraph sex dreams about that spear entering and exiting the chest, deep breaths loosening with each thrust, exhaustive, nightly visions aren't just a commitment to worship, it also sounds habit forming… She teaches us to forget the body in lieu of what needs decorating, needs intimating, what is immediate, what is like the ease of that exhale.

It improves as we learn to forget, I guess. She says.
“When Satan sees us a little anxious about our bodies, he wants nothing more than to convince us that our way of life must kill us, an destroy our health. Even if we weep, he makes us afraid of blindness. I have passed through this, and therefore I know it. But I know of no better sight or better health that we can desire, than the loss of both in such a cause. Being myself so sickly, I was always under constraint, and good for nothing, till I resolved to make no account of my or of my health; even now I am worthless enough.. But when it pleased God to let me find out this device of Satan, I used to say to the latter, when he suggest to me that I was ruining my health, that my death was of no consequence. When he suggested REST, I replied that I did not want rest, but the cross.. My health has been much better since I have ceased to look after my ease and comforts.”

"My yetzer hara, speak to them, preach to them, my evil heart, to the ones who look out the window and are not surprised to see the sun, burning itself out, ninety-three million miles away, the ones who dream of the dead and expect themselves to be dream of, the Am-ha-aretz, filling the streets and seeking authority no further, write with a brass pencil on a clean tin plate, I A O, I A E, corruption is no more than knowledge that comes too soon, tell them of Atholl's coronation with a red-hot iron crown, and of how the Egyptian burned red-haired men and scattered their ashes with winnowing fans, tell of Justinian's pavement made like an ocean and destroyed when the roof of Saint Sophia fell in, and of the son of the ruler of Cairo, Ibn Tulun, sleeping on an inflated feather-bed on a lake of quicksilver, tell them of Antiope and the goat, of Pasiphae and the bull, and the egg that Leda laid to make them laugh if they'll listen. The Am-ha-aretz, whose memories include nothing but their own failures, tell them their suffering belittles them, tell that that, my yetzer hara, tell the ones who trade only in false coin where they can buy clothes to wear when they are alone. That is all, and Greshman's law, and Gresham's law, and Gresham's law for love or money. Go out among them and tell them that their nostalgia for places they have never been is sex, the sweating Am-ha-aretz, and when they hear music, tell them it is their mother, tell Nicodermus, tell him there is no other way to be born again, and again and again and again of a thousand other mothers of others-to-be, tell him, my yetzer hara, tell them, tell them my evil heart, that they are hopeless, tell them what damnation is, and that they are damned, that what they have been forging all this time never existed.”

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Where are the Saint Theresa of Avila excerpts from? I'm curious and fascinated...